The Walk (5 page)

Almost two hours after I arrived, the social worker led me back through the double doors of the ER. My first thought when I saw my wife was that there had been a mistake, and they’d taken me to the wrong room. McKale was vibrant and strong. The woman lying in the bed in a hospital gown looked tiny and fragile. Broken.

My McKale was broken. Her eyes were closed, and her hair was spread out on the pillow behind her. The bed was flanked by monitors. There was an IV running from her right arm. I was surprised to see there was still dirt on her face. McKale had fallen face-first from the horse, and in the emergency effort, no one had taken the time to clean her off.

My legs felt as if my body suddenly weighed a ton. I leaned against the bedrail as my eyes filled with tears. “Mickey . . .”

At the sound of my voice, McKale’s eyes fluttered, and she looked up at me.

I squeezed her hand. “I’m here.”

Tears filled her eyes. Her voice came softly. “I’m so sorry.”

I fought back my own tears. I needed to be strong for her. “What are you sorry for?”

“I ruined everything.”

“No, baby. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

She looked at me for a moment then closed her eyes. “No, it’s not.”

The next twenty-four hours passed like a nightmare. McKale’s IV fed her a steady stream of morphine, and she dozed in and out of consciousness as I sat beside her. Once she woke and asked if this were a dream. How I wished I could have told her “yes.” Around eight, I went out of the room to make some calls.

My first call was to McKale’s father. He began to cry and promised he’d be out on the next available flight. Then I called my father. He was quiet when I told him. “I’m sorry, son. Do you need anything?”

“A miracle.”

“Wish I had one. Do you need me to come up?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He was perfectly fine with that. We both were. That’s just the way it was.

Later that night I got a call from Kyle. “How’s McKale?”

“Just a minute,” I said. I walked out of McKale’s room.
“Her back’s broken. It’s bad. We just don’t know how bad yet.”

“But she’s not paralyzed . . .”

I hated that word. “We don’t know yet, but she can’t move her legs.”

He groaned. “There’s hope, isn’t there? Miracles happen every day.”

“That’s what we’re hoping for.”

We were both quiet for a long time. Then he said, “I called to tell you we got the Bridge account.”

It took a minute for what he said to register. I was astonished that what had completely dominated my thoughts for weeks before no longer owned space or importance. Had it been another day, we would have been celebrating with an expensive meal and a bottle of champagne at Canlis. That world already seemed like a distant memory. All I said was, “Oh.” I realized just how disconnected I’d suddenly become.

There was another long silence. Finally Kyle said, “Hey, don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got everything under control.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Did McKale get the flowers I sent?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Give McKale my love. And don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

The next three days ticked by in a surreal limbo, my heart vacillating between hope and despair. The doctors echoed what the social worker had said—they wouldn’t know for certain the extent of the nerve damage for seventy-two hours.
A lot can happen in seventy-two hours
, I told myself. Maybe when the swelling decreased, she would get feeling and movement back.

She had to recover. McKale in bed, immobile, was about the most unnatural thing I could imagine.

The rest of my world ceased to exist. I stayed by McKale’s side, and at night I slept in a cot next to her bed, at least tried to, since the nurses seemed to come in every twenty minutes to check on something. I didn’t want her to wake and not have me there. McKale’s father, Sam, arrived Saturday afternoon, and for the first time I left her side and went home to shower and change my clothes. I was only gone for a couple of hours.

Monday morning I didn’t go home. It had been seventy-two hours since the accident, and the doctors had told us they were coming in the morning for her tests. Finally we were going to find out the extent of the damage. Sam arrived around ten. That morning none of us spoke of the tests. McKale talked to her father about his new home in Florida, then she asked me about work.
I realized then that I hadn’t told her about the Bridge
account.

“That’s good news,” she said.

Sam was more excited than both of us. “Well done, my boy. Well done.”

I feigned a smile. I had no real interest in it and spoke of it only to take our minds from weightier matters.

Around eleven thirty, three doctors entered the room. One of them carried a small vinyl satchel, another a clipboard. I recognized the female doctor from the day of the accident. She said to me, “I’m Dr. Hardman. You’re McKale’s husband?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re her father?”

Sam nodded.

“I’m going to need you both to leave while we conduct these tests.”

I wanted to ask why but didn’t. I put a lot of faith in the doctors. I realized later that it wasn’t them I put faith in; it was my hope that she would be healed. Sam stepped away, and one of the doctors began pulling the curtains around the bed.

“May we stand outside and listen?” I asked, pointing to the other side of the curtain.

“Sure,” she said.

I leaned over and kissed McKale’s forehead. “I
love you.”

“I love you too.”

I parted the curtain and walked outside next to Sam.

“How are you, McKale?” Dr. Hardman asked.

McKale mumbled something.

“I’m sorry. We’re going to run some tests. They’re quite simple. They shouldn’t be painful.” There was some shuffling, and McKale moaned in pain as they rolled her over to get a look at her spine.

I heard a bag unzipping, and then one of the doctors said, “Dr. Schiffman will touch various parts of your body with this tool.” (After the procedure I saw
the tool
. It looked like a medieval torture device. It was shaped like a wheel, with pins radiating out from the center.) “We will run this along different parts of your body and then ask for a response. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” McKale said meekly.

Then I heard one of the doctors ask, “Can you feel this, McKale?”

“Yes.”

My heart thrilled. I wanted to high-five Sam, but he was just looking at the floor.

“Okay. Now we’ll try below your waist. Can you feel this?”

There was a long pause. McKale said, “No.”

“How about this?”

There was another pause. This time her voice was slightly strained. “No.”

My stomach twisted.
C’mon, McKale.

“How about this?”

McKale started to cry. “No.”

I started silently praying.
Please, God. Let her feel something.

“How about this?”

McKale was crying now. “No.”

Sam put his hand over his eyes.

“And this?”

“No. I can’t feel anything,” she shouted. “I can’t feel anything!”

I parted the curtain, but Dr. Hardman just shook her head at me. I stepped back.

“Now we’re going to test for deep nerve damage. Sometimes nerve damage is just on the surface, and patients retain feeling under their skin. I am going to insert this needle into your leg, and I need you to tell me if you feel anything.”

I kept waiting for something, but McKale didn’t make a sound.

I dropped down to a chair and held my head in my hands. I felt sick. She had no feeling. McKale was paralyzed.

In spite of the permanent damage to her nerves, her spine still needed to be repaired and she had to go back in for surgery. We had to wait another 24 hours before the hospital was able to fit her in. Sam had to fly home that morning, so I was the only one at McKale’s side when they rolled her off to surgery. I waited tensely in the waiting room.

When the surgeon came out to give me an update, he had a large smile on his face. “That went very well. Even better than we expected. We were able to repair her spine without any major problems.”

His tone elevated me. “Does that mean she might walk again?”

His expression fell. “No. It just means that the bones of the spine are repaired.”

I’m told that there’s a universal pattern to grief and loss that everyone must pass through. The first three stages are denial, anger, and bargaining. I suppose I did them all at once. I promised God everything. I’d give all my money to the poor, spend my life building homes for the homeless, anything that might get His attention.

I even had a plan for God to make it happen. I would just wake like the whole thing had been a bad dream. No one would even have to know what had happened. But I never woke from this dream. God had other
plans.

Wednesday afternoon, Falene called. I didn’t really want to take her call but did anyway. She had already called several times over the last week and left messages that she urgently needed to talk to me. She was surprised to hear my voice. “Alan?”

“Hi, Falene.”

“How is McKale?”

“The damage to her nerves is permanent.”

Falene slightly gasped. When she spoke, there was emotion in her voice. “I’m so sorry.” After a few moments, she said, “What can I do?”

“There’s nothing anyone can do,” I said angrily. “If there were, we would have done it.” Falene was silent. After a moment I said, “I’m sorry. I’m not doing well.”

“I understand.”

“What did you need to talk to me about?”

She hesitated. “It can wait,” she said. “Things will work out. Give McKale my love.”

I puzzled over her comment but pushed it aside. “All right, we’ll talk later.”

Kyle called later that evening. “How is McKale?”

“She’s paralyzed.”

Kyle was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, man. I wish there was something I could do.”

I sniffed. “Yeah.”

“I met with Wathen this morning. He asked how you’re doing.”

“Tell him thank you. And thank you for the flowers.”

“Will do. He wanted to know when they could see some final graphics, so I put Ralph on it. Also, you have the studio scheduled for Tuesday’s Coiffeur shoot. Have you selected a model?”